


Solace

by fictorium



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-29
Updated: 2010-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium





	Solace

The knock at the door scares the crap out of him, because normal people don't make the whole wall vibrate. Danny tries to style it out, holding some papers over the bourbon he just spilled in his lap, and he thinks he looks pretty calm by the time he opens the door to Mr. Black-Suit-and-Earpiece.

It should be obvious even before she steps into view, out in his dingy hallway that the Super never buys brighter bulbs for. It's obvious as soon as she waves the agents away, stepping into his apartment with the weight of the world sitting uneasily on those graceful shoulders. Her makeup is a memory now, and the lamp light he's been reading by catches the tracks of freshly cried tears in a way that makes him want to reach across the soft space and gently wipe them away.

She lets him, which is a first. Then she kisses him, which is by no means a first, but still manages to feel like one. She shrugs out of her coat, and it pools around her ankles like a discarded shroud. The image takes a second to shake, but he covers by pouring her a drink.

"I'm so sorry, C.J."

The condolences go unacknowledged, and Danny knows that the words have probably lost meaning already. From the calls and meetings and diplomatic cables flying back and forth all day, the world and his wife have been sorry for C.J., for the President, for Mallory, for the country.

He knows how it works, and he's filed the obituary that will run in the morning. Used to be a job he couldn't wait to get out of, writing the obits. Today's was a labor of love, a badge of honor that he'll never add to his portfolio, but one that he'll never forget a single comma of.

The drinks don't last long, and he knew from the first glance in his direction that small talk wouldn't be an option. There's nothing small to discuss tonight, only the impossibly, unbearably big things that threaten to crush them all. He'll save her from that if he can, even if it's only temporary respite.

He offers his hand, and it's as courteous as he can make it. They both know that she can turn around and leave, zoom back across town in the black car with the silent agents, but that won't be living and that's all they still know how to do.

He offers his bed, and she accepts. They spill too many years and regrets and missed chances all over the sheets, but it's beautiful, powerful and perfect. Like good choreography, ever move feels spontaneous but looks intentional, and it takes a long time to tire of the feel of each other.

Morning rolls around too soon, with its appointments, arrangements and other places to be. She kisses him goodbye with distraction already in her eyes, but the silent promise is made not to leave it at this. They're so close to something amazing, after giving it up for everything else they couldn't bear to miss.

They won't miss this, because time is too precious and they finally have their chance. If legacies matter, then this will be theirs.


End file.
